


on higher grounds

by crackers4jenn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackers4jenn/pseuds/crackers4jenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based (sort of) off this <a href="http://casfallsinlove.tumblr.com/post/104095832048">tumblr post</a>:</p><p>charity collector cas who has a spot outside dean’s favourite book store in town and who always looks so cold despite the huge scarf he wears so dean takes to bringing him hot chocolate every day and cas gets this little smile every time he sees dean coming down the street</p>
            </blockquote>





	on higher grounds

**Author's Note:**

> Based off that prompt, yes, but slightly different. A lot different.

"Oh my god."

That's Sam's voice booming from above and behind, loud like some pitchy overhead speaker meant to publicly shame.

Dean startles, then plays it cool by darting away from the window where, FYI, nothing weird or creepy was going down. Just, you know, normal gazing. People do it all the time.

"Just ask him out already," Sam says, except, far from being a friendly suggestion, his tone's the equivalent of a smack to the head.

Dean busies himself behind the counter, swiping away crumbs from the 'day before' pastry rack they keep up near the register. Ideally, it's supposed to attract customers. In actuality, Dean might have a 'day before' pastry problem.

"Who?"

Ignorance has always been his strong suit, but calling-Dean's-bullshit has also been Sam's, so the pitying look he receives is as expected as it is unappreciated.

"Scarf guy," Sam goes ahead and answers anyway, and even though there's no way there's any truth in what Sam's implying -- namely that Dean has some sort of crush on the dark-haired dude across the street who's taken to standing outside the book store for (not that Dean's paid attention or counted or anything) four hours every day to collect charity for something called 'Random Acts' -- Dean still hisses at him to shut his damn trap. For god's sake, there are customers around. Last thing Dean wants is for one of their regulars to think Dean's stalking some guy he's never even talked to.

(Well, except for a week ago when he was opening the doors for the day. He was running late, as per usual, and Sam wasn't around to help because apparently ' _the woman who's carrying my child is hunched over a toilet regretting the day she met me, Dean_ ' passes as a priority, so he was a little harried and a lot annoyed, trying to unlock everything.

"Hello," the blue-eyed guy had said, appearing at Dean's side out of nowhere enough that Dean released the world's least manly yelp for all to hear.

The guy looked amused, but also like he was doing a shitty job of trying to stifle it for Dean's sake.

So Dean had bristled. He'd shuffled the bag of fresh fruit he'd had in his right arm to his left arm and jiggled the key anew. The damn thing was always getting stuck. It wasn't the first time Dean considered breaking-and-entering into his own place of business.

"Yeah," he smiled his be-nice-to-the-customers smile, "just a sec, man."

He'd mistaken him for some guy jonesing to get his coffee fix, but that was set straight when one of those slotted cardboard boxes appeared between them.

There'd been a spiel -- _winter is tough, now's the time to give, people most require compassion during the holidays_ \-- and some pleading until it clicked. The guy was one of them bell ringers. You know, stands outside the grocery store and clangs at you until you're guilted into dropping all your spare change into the bowl.

Dean, admittedly not at his finest moment, had snarked, "Seriously? It's a coffee shop, dude, we're already scraping the bottom of the barrel here as it is."

Which wasn't exactly supposed to be a blow-off -- more like the world's most unprofessional overshare -- but it was taken as one. The guy stared, apologized, stared some more, and then took off across the street where he's been camped out ever since. But not before jangling the key Dean had abandoned, unsticking the lock.

So, yeah, it's guilt that has Dean glancing that way every so often, okay. He feels like a dick. Hell, he is a dick.)

Sam breaks through Dean's wallowing with a cough and a steaming cup of hot chocolate, which he thrusts in Dean's face.

"Dammit," Dean complains. "Watch it, you--"

"Here." The cup floats closer. "Give it to him."

Dean considers acting dumb. He also considers punching his brother in the nose.

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Fine. Don't. Be an ass instead."

" _You're_ an ass instead," Dean mutters.

He's got a perfectly good reason for not wanting to hand deliver hot chocolate to someone he doesn't even know, for christ's sake: as co-owner of On Higher Grounds, he's got customers to take care of. Who are all already seated and content with their purchases, sure, but, hey. Maybe Jody'll want a refill before she goes. That's on him.

Sam comes around the counter and leans in near Dean, not even pretending to be subtle. His gaze is locked on the window in front of them, the one with a clear view of the book store across the street. And anyone who may be standing in front of it, or whatever, it's not like Dean's checked.

"Man, it looks cold out there," Sam starts.

Dean snorts. If this is Sam's tactic, it's weak.

"All that snow, and wind. So much ice. I'm just glad I'm not out there."

"You sure about that?"

Sam rolls his eyes -- only halfway, though, because he catches himself and realizes, in doing so, he's giving himself away. He gets more direct, his voice dropping.

"I'm just saying, I'm glad I have this steaming... warm... delicious hot chocolate already in a to-go cup."

Dean eyes his brother pointedly. "Yeah, you two want a minute?"

"Dean," Sam whines, tossing in the towel. "God, man, what the hell's wrong with you? You stare at that guy every day--"

"Hey, hey, hey," he grunts until Sam shuts up. "I do not. I'm surveying the land," he insists. "I'm scoping competition! And anyway, so what? I can't look out my damn store window now?"

"You're ogling," Sam accuses.

Dean just stares. That's how ridiculous that is.

"Fine," Sam relents. Victory swells through Dean, but only for a second because, all of a sudden, Sam's looking shady. "Prove it." 

There's gloating there, premature and everything.

"What? No."

Sam shoves the hot chocolate at him again.

"C'mon," he says. "You're not mentally spooning the guy, fine. Prove it. Bring him the hot chocolate as -- I don't know, call it a gesture of kindness. You know, a way to thank him for doing what he does, from our business to him."

That's some devious shit. Dean would almost be impressed, except Sam's gotten like ten times more smug during the whole thing like he's already won.

Dean glares at him.

And then he snatches the cup, storming his way toward the door with a warned, "Shut your mouth," yelled over his shoulder as he goes.

 

&&

 

He makes it three steps outside before regret kicks in.

One, he's not wearing a coat so it's cold as balls, and two, now he's gotta actually deliver the goods or Sam'll never let it go.

Jesus, his life. Why does he care? Sam can think what he wants. Sam's letting his hair grow out because he thinks it looks good, so clearly he's already wired with a heaping dose of wrong opinions.

Still, Dean sets across the street anyway. He steps into a puddle of melted snow right off the bat, and curses at his awesome luck. When he looks up, still shaking the slush off of him, he meets the eyes of Scarf Guy. Who is doing a piss poor job of stifling his amusement. Again.

Cursing once more, only inside his head this time, Dean strides until he's crossed the damn street and standing right in front of him.

"So, hey, you look like you could use this, or not, whatever," and it's maybe the most awkwardly delivered run-on sentence of Dean's life, but he's committed thus far. There's no backing out. There's dying of embarrassment, sure, and right now that's looking like a less painful alternative to undergoing the scrutiny this guy's laying into him.

Dean's arm strains from holding the cup out, but, eventually, it's taken. Who knows why, but what he feels most, in that moment, is relief. Probably because one million bucks says Sam's watching through the window like a friggin' creep, and this way Dean gets to saunter back with an 'I told you so.'

The guy says, "Thank you," after a beat, and takes a sip.

Dean's eyes don't linger on his mouth as that happens. Of course they don't. He's not depraved. Besides, up close again, he can see the guy's barely even attractive. Chapped lips, weird nose, hair looking like it's been through some serious shit in its time. Stupid scarf. Pfft. He's like a six. Seven, if Dean's just taking into context his eyes, which are the clearest color of blue Dean's ever seen outside of road trips to the ocean and -- shit, he's staring. He's a weirdo who's staring.

Scratching the back of his neck and willing away the blush he knows from past humiliations is making the tips of his ears turn pink, he says, "Don't mention it. It's, uh. Pretty cold. So. And I own--"

"On Higher Grounds. I remember."

Right.

Dean clears his throat. "About that," he starts, but he's cut off pretty quickly.

"There's no need to apologize. It's forgiven."

"You don't even know what I was gonna say."

"That you were sorry. Is that correct? That we got off on the wrong foot, that usually you're not as abrasive toward strangers--"

"Abrasive? Dude, you jumped down my throat before I'd opened the damn door."

"All I did was ask--"

"If you could harass my customers. Yeah, buddy, I remember."

There's a beat. Distantly Dean realizes this isn't going the way he kinda hoped it would go, but also, who does this guy think he is? Dean's willing to own up to being an asshole that day, no arguments there, but if he was a dick, no way he was alone in that.

"Well, again." The guy's gone scarily calm. "Thank you for the hot chocolate. But I have more people to, as you say, harass, so if you'd mind--"

He doesn't actually tell Dean to fuck off, but it's implied.

Dean says, "Any time," and his tone is just as clipped. There's another 8-second long staring contest before Dean snorts and books it back toward the shop.

Inside, Sam jumps on him before he can so much as shake off the cold and snow.

"So? What he'd say? Did he tell you his name? See, I knew it. You totally and completely want to do romantic stuff with Scarf Guy--"

"Leave it alone," Dean says, with something in his voice that, for once, makes Sam listen.

 

&&

 

The next day, Dean's running late. He loves his car like most people love living things, but come winter she's hell to deal with.

Scarf Guy, Dean notices once he's doing his first wipe down of the tables closest to the window, is cradling one of their coffees, taking a sip from it every so often between approaching passerbys.

Dean knows that Sam knows the exact moment he spots it, because it's like being slammed into a wall of smugness.

Sure enough, when Dean goes back up front, Sam looks _so pleased_ with himself.

"You got a little--" Dean gestures like there's something on his face, and when Sam goes to dab at it, Dean swipes him upside the head.

And then grins and walks away, feeling pretty damn good about Sam's exasperated sigh.

 

&&

 

The next morning, only minutes after Dean's got the place open, Scarf Guy is pushing through the entrance like he's been forced to do so at gun point.

Dean had been busy setting out pastries, but now that he's no longer alone, and once he sees who it is, he aborts to... well, to stand at the counter awkwardly until Scarf Guy breaks the standstill.

"I'll have the salted caramel latte," he says, while coming to a stop at the counter. His eyes are scanning the giant menu plastered behind Dean's head, so Dean gets a solid three seconds of gaping in before that gaze drops back down and locks on his, expectantly. Maybe, too, a little curiously.

"Right," rushes out of Dean in one long exhale. "Salted caramel -- right. Uh, what size?" he asks while maintaining strong eye contact with the register as he punches in the order.

"Medium?"

"Okie-doke." _No._ Why? Why those words? Kicking himself but covering like a pro, Dean glances back up. "$4.57."

A five dollar bill gets slid across the counter. Dean grabs it right as it's being let go of, so they almost, but don't, brush fingers, and of course Dean's brain decides to react to that like he's a fifteen-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. His thought process basically resembles a giant, bouncing exclamation point, and he can't even figure out why.

Seriously, the guy's the worst.

He's probably in here to _nice_ Dean into another apology. Like hell.

Getting a grip, Dean says, "Name?" as indifferent as possible, even though there's no one else around yet, and even if the place were packed, Dean knows his usual customers. He never has to ask who's drinking what, let alone who he's making it for.

"Castiel," the guy answers, after a pause.

Dean doesn't bother hiding his double-take. Ten to one, that's some sorta crazy-person alias. No one names their kid whatever the hell that was. Casteeyell. God, if it's real, it at least explains why the dude's the way he is. Hard not to grow up a bastard with all the kid's picking on your weird ass creeper name.

Even so, he scribbles 'ASSTYELL" on the cup while the coffee's dripping, trying -- and failing -- not to smile at his own hilarious doings.

Sam comes in while the thing's being poured, and Scarf Guy, Cas, he goes from standing stiffly near the 'pick up' end of the counter to easing up and heading back over to where Sam's pulling a bran muffin for himself from out of its glass case.

"Hey, Cas," Sam says, and Dean straight up jostles the lid, just barely avoiding sloshing scalding liquid all over his hand. Hold up. His brother's on a first name basis with the enemy?

Worse, and just as confusing, Cas greets back, "Sam," only he sounds a thousand percent more cheerful talking to him than he did during his entire exchange with Dean.

"Awesome, I knew you'd be in. No one can resist. The pumpkin spice got to you, didn't it?"

Cas smiles. At least Dean thinks that's what he's doing. It's so small, it might just be a facial tic. "Unfortunately for my cravings. Though, today I'm attempting the--" He squints up at the menu, then confesses, "--salted caramel latte."

"Nice. Even better, Dean makes the best one on the block."

Oh, that's perfect. That's great. Dean gets what this is now. Sam's sticking his gigantic nose where it don't belong. Too bad he doesn't know that whatever's between Dean and Cas, it's very much mutual, so his shitty matchmaking attempt is only going to backfire.

Dean snaps the lid on and sets the coffee on the counter for Cas to grab.

"I make the _only_ one on the block," Dean sets the record straight, because it's true. And bragging makes his skin crawl. "But, yeah. Enjoy."

Sam's beaming at Dean like he couldn't be any prouder that Dean went three seconds without being an asshole. Even Cas looks grateful that they had a halfway civil encounter.

Until, that is, he spots the scrawled evidence of Dean's immaturity written on the side of his cup, and while it takes him a second or two to sound it out, once he gets it, his good mood fucks off fast.

He glowers, which confuses the hell out of Sam, and says, "Thank you," as tersely as humanly possible before nodding and whisking out of there.

"Come again!" Dean trills sarcastically, and then he accuses, "Freak," under his breath as soon as the door's closed. "What's his problem? Yeesh."

Sam doesn't seem convinced of Dean's innocence at all, even though he plays it up big time.

Minutes later, just because he happens to glance that way while refilling a napkin dispenser, he catches sight of Cas storming toward a garbage can at the edge of the street, all ready to toss the coffee into the bin as a gesture of their mutual hatred for one another, when he seems to think better of it. He stops, hesitates, and then takes a tiny sip, all while frowning. And then Dean sees him sigh and take a begrudging second and then third sip, and Dean nearly fist pumps the air, that's how victorious he feels. Take that, asshat.

Catching himself, he clears his throat and heads for the back to set up their second round of baked goods, but it's too late, Sam saw and has jumped to his own conclusions. Which, if the twinkly gleam in his eyes is anything to go by, is the assumption that Dean's still harboring a big gay crush on Scarf Guy.

Dean flips Sam off as he goes.

 

&&

 

Cas comes in again the following day, bundled, as usual, in his flasher's trenchcoat and scarf. He hasn't even started bothering people for the day and his cheek's are already flushed from the cold.

Not that Dean cares, or notices.

Lingering at the end of the line until Sam's free at the register, Cas gets his order to go. Dean's busy setting out fresh pie, so he doesn't catch the drink this time, but a glance back at which machine Sam's on lets him know he's going with another new flavor.

"Here ya go," Sam says to him while reaching over the counter to hand the coffee off. "Enjoy. Stay warm out there."

Dean mimics him silently, turning to the side so he's not spotted. _Stay warm out there_. Jesus. He'd tell him to keep it in his pants, but most likely that'd get Sam insinuating things about Dean's own desires that are stupid and wrong, so.

"Thank you, Sam," Cas says back. It's loaded, too, just in case any of the three of them weren't picking up on how pointedly Dean and Cas were ignoring one another.

It doesn't stop Cas from glancing over at him on his way out. When he's busted -- okay, so maybe Dean was looking too -- he scowls and hurries out, just this side of flustered.

Sam coos, "You _like_ him--"

"I will punch you in the neck."

 

&&

 

For the fourth day in a row, Cas is their first customer.

Sam's in the back on the phone with Jess, so it's just Dean. Cas, as he notices this, deflates, and Dean tries not to take that as affirmation that, as far as enemies go, he's the most awesome.

But he totally is.

"Heya, Cas. Let me guess." He eyes the menu behind him and lands, on random, "Egg nog latte. Wait. Gross. Who the hell'd put that... Sam! What I'd say about egg nog, you cream-chuggin' freak!" A door slams in the back, letting Dean know his complaints are going unheard. Dean snorts. "You believe that?"

He's asking Cas, but Cas, instead of standing in front of him, is sitting at one of the tables. Slumped, actually, and now that Dean's looking, he's catching how exhausted the guy appears to be.

"Uh," he says. "Cas?"

"I need a moment," answers Cas, resting his head in his hands. Dean's worked enough bar tops to know defeat when he sees it. Cas has got that down, and then some. Still, he adds, "Please," like he's asking something huge here, so Dean shuts up. For all of a two seconds.

He comes around the counter warily, eyeing Cas the whole time. Not that Cas is aware; he's rubbing his eyes like he's trying to massage away a headache.

"Hey," Dean calls out to him. It sounds like he's concerned, which he's not, so he roughs up his voice. "You okay, man?" He's only asking because obviously the guy's a liability. _Sad Charity Worker Offs Himself and Handsome Coffee Shop Owner_ is the stuff of headlines. Dean reads the paper, okay.

Cas stills when Dean's proximity registers. He drops his hand to his thigh, which he squeezes and holds onto. His face, tilted Dean's way now, openly gives away his distrust. "Um. Yes?"

"You sure? 'Cause, no offense, but you look like shit."

"Thank you."

"Yeah. I mean. No offense, like I said. It's just, usually you're a lot more--"

"Forgiving of your rudeness? Which is frankly remarkable in its persistence."

Jesus, here they go again. You try to be nice to a guy.

Cas winces, just barely. With it, he breathes out, meditative and zen-like. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. You were just trying to..." He tilts his head when he seems to realize he doesn't actually know what Dean's angle is here. The look on his face turns skeptical. "What, exactly, are you doing?"

"Uh. Being nice? I don't know. Shut up."

Smooth. Real smooth.

Weirdly enough, Cas is almost smiling? Not, like, full-on grinning, but Dean's mini tantrum has him staring softly at Dean like he's realized that beneath all the prickles there's a sappy, gooey center.

Fuck that noise.

"Anyway," Dean says loudly, heading back for the counter, "order something or clear out. No loitering allowed. You want a table to cry at, go around the block. I hear there's a couple of Starbucks and they love when you do that there. Feeds their grubby, corporate souls, or whatever."

When Dean turns back around, Cas is there at the register. Totally composed, too, like he's actually refreshed, not just faking it.

"I'll have the egg nog latte, please," he says without missing a beat.

"Oh my god, no. Sorry. No."

"That's what I'd like."

"We're all out. Try Starbucks."

"I don't understand."

"I'm not making that. I refuse."

"Dean--" That's Sam, fresh from out of the back. "Stop being a jerk."

"I'm not! You stupid, giant... giant."

"Hello, Sam," Cas says, ignoring Dean's fuck-you-all eyes.

"Hey, Cas. Is my brother being a jerk?"

"Okay," Dean cuts in. "Real cute. 'Let's ignore Dean.' Ha. You're hilarious."

"I asked for the egg nog latte, and he refused."

"Oh," Sam titters. "I love egg nog lattes."

"We agreed," Dean snaps at his brother, in full-on stern-voice, "no egg nog anything! It sullies the menu! We're men here, dammit."

"Mmm," Sam says, pulling the egg nog out of the fridge case.

"Yeah," Dean tells him. He's smiling tightly. "I hate you."

Cas, who's amused and ain't even bothering to hide it, gets pointed at as well. "You too," Dean says.

 

&&

 

Day five brings more of the same, except Dean spots Cas having a tense phone conversation outside the shop beforehand.

"Awesome, our very own stray," Dean complains when he sees him, because by this point, it's valid.

Beside him, Sam tells him, "Knock it off," except his face is doing that sketchy thing that usually precedes a 'let's talk about our feelings' chat.

Yeah, no.

Dean eases his way around Sam until he rounds the counter. He's stealthy about it, borderline ninja, like there's emotional tripwire he's maneuvering to avoid.

Still, right as the coast is looking clear, Sam says, "You think he's okay?" with a crapload of worry.

Dean considers bluffing his ignorance, but, again, Sam hones in on that shit like he gets off doing it. And besides, when Dean looks over to bust Sam's nuts for caring so much, he sees that Sam really does seem genuinely upset. Dean's a dick, but he's not _that_ big of one.

That doesn't mean he doesn't gruffly remind his brother, "Stray, Sam."

Sam huffs. With it, some of his usual bitchiness returns. "Says the guy with the crush."

Dean responds by sputtering his denial.

Even though no words are actually formed, it's, in fact, just a lot of heated frowning and exhaling, Sam's fluent in it.

"Look." This tone is different. This is Sam being serious. Dean is immediately defensive. "I know you guys got off on the wrong foot or whatever--"

"Try wrong everything," Dean snarks, just to be petty.

Sam thins his lips and gives it a second for the gravitas to return. "You like him, Dean. And you can deny it all you want," he rushes out with, because, yeah, Dean's jaw is hanging open to do just that, especially because he's caught sight of Cas outside the window again -- still on the phone, now looking weary -- and his dumb traitorous heart actually seizes up, "but I know you. You'd admit it, except you think it makes you weak."

"What are you, Oprah? Just because you subscribe to her magazine doesn't mean you can psychobabble me like you've got _any_ idea--"

"Yeah, you're right. This is you not-overreacting because I'm wrong."

Dean glares. Why'd he work his ass off to send Sam to college again? Because: regrets. Especially (well, only) when Sam uses his lawyer'y mojo to one-up Dean.

"Dean," Sam sighs, his weekly realization that Dean reacts to being backed into a feelings-corner about as well as a caged bear. Meaning, he's grouchy and nearing the point where he starts swiping his paws to fend off the attack. "All I'm saying is, I don't care. Okay? Cas is cool. And I know, ever since Lisa and Ben--"

That's about enough of that.

"You done?" Dean cuts in warningly.

Sam must catch the tone -- that, and the way Dean's staring like fratricide is a thing he's willing to be jailed for.

Someone clears their throat.

"Cas," Sam blurts at the same time Dean whirls around and notices, hey, they're not alone anymore.

By the awkward hanging of his shoulders, it's clear he stepped inside just in time to hear _some_ of that. Who knows how much, but the idea of Cas getting an earful of Dean's private business, even if it was just the tail end, sends Dean stomping past the counter and through the partition until he's alone in the back.

He hears, "I'm sorry," out of Cas, genuinely so, and Sam saying, "Don't worry about it," way too brightly, but he slams his office door before he can hear anything else, like the consensus that, yeah, Dean's a mess.

 

&&

 

Day six is better.

Probably because it goes according to Dean's Law, which is: _thou shall not discuss past, present, or future emotional baggage at any time ever so long as Dean shall live, amen._

Yeah, Sam bustles around him like he's equal parts sorry Dean's as sad of a sack as he is and overeager to stay on Dean's good side, but so long as they aren't caring-and-sharing, what does Dean care.

When Cas arrives -- the first customer, as per their new usual, and only minutes after opening, which has also become the norm -- he takes one look at Dean and heads, instead, for Sam.

Which is fine, it's awesome, Dean's got warm muffins to put out anyway.

Sam says, "Hey, Cas," all nice and friendly.

"Good morning, Sam." Also nice and friendly. "I think I'll try... the London Fog. Medium, please. And a muffin," he adds, sounding 100% calculated instead of the spontaneous he was obviously aiming for.

That startles Dean into looking over. Sure enough, Cas is already looking back. In his peripheral, Sam's staring too, like Cas just took a knee to ask Dean's hand in marriage. Dean is going to murder him later.

"Dean?" Sam prompts after a few seconds.

Right.

Dean holds up the tongs. "Which kind?" His voice is gruff. It's borderline impolite, truthfully, and Sam's already over there lamenting that his brother was raised in a barn, but Cas pays it no mind. Cas, in fact, is coming over to Dean's side of the counter to peruse the multitude of muffins.

Throat dry, Dean swallows, watching as Cas's gaze passes over each muffin with the kind of zoned in scrutiny Dean gives -- well, pie, actually.

Finally, Cas says, "Do you have a preference?" and then looks up, locking eyes with Dean.

It's stupid to be flustered by that. And yet.

Dean clears his throat. "Yeah, I guess so," he says, vaguely hostile about it.

It's not like the guy actually asked for it. So.

Cas smiles at Dean, only it's so small it's barely even there. "Can I ask what it is?"

"You can."

"Dean," Sam sighs, pained to be witnessing this exchange.

"Yeah, yeah. 'Don't taunt the customers.' Fine. Uh, how 'bout raisin?"

"Dean," Sam sighs again, this time because that is, hands down, their worst muffin. It's only on the menu because Bobby, the cranky old bastard, insists on it. 'Adopted parent's rights,' he calls it.

Dean says, "What?" as innocently as he can make it.

Without saying a word, Sam facially communicates that Dean's intentionally being an asshole and as co-proprietor of a fledgling and struggling business, they want to ensure their customer's happiness, not sabotage it. Also, stop pulling Cas's pigtails and ask him out already.

Dean scowls back, ignores that last part, and says, "Actually, you seem like a date-honey kinda guy," because he is nothing if not a professional. And, a week of observing the guy has given him some insight into his tastes.

For some reason, Cas is wide-eyed, staring at Dean like he committed some social faux pas. Dean's struggling to figure out why, until Sam sniggers and covers it up with a cough. Then it hits: date, honey.

Jesus, why not just suggest the homo-rimming muffin?

Cas moves on back over to Sam, riffling through his wallet as a distraction, and says, "I'll have the raisin, please."

 

&&

 

Come day seven, Dean thinks they've broke the curse. It's twelve minutes past eight, they're already four customer's deep, and not a single one of them is Cas.

Okay, it's a little disconcerting, but only in the way a sudden toothache stops tormenting you after a week of poking at it. What the hell's the sudden painlessness supposed to mean?

Dean's pouring Ellen a refill, out behind the counter and everything, even though he swore he never would because he ain't no damn waitress. But it's Ellen, and she's pretty much family. Besides, she gives Dean this look sometimes like she's remembering the time Dean and her daughter, Jo, briefly messed around, and he likes to see that as infrequently as possible.

"You okay?" he asks while he pours. Not that he'd ever say it to her face, not unless he came up with a deathwish all of a sudden, but she looks damn awful. Mostly because he can see through what she's trying to cover up with coffee, and that's an exhaustion that not even caffeine can hide.

"You askin' or presumin' otherwise?"

He lifts a hand in the air as a gesture of surrender. "Hey, now. Comes with the coffee. Kinda like how booze and TMI go together."

Ellen snorts, since that? She gets. Ellen owns the Roadhouse across town, this small, rundown, cozy-as-fuck bar Dean once worked at to help put Sam through school. Meaning she knows small talk comes with the territory. Not that Dean's not genuinely asking.

"I'm alright, Dean. Nothing you need to worry about, unless you got any idea on how to legally keep a twenty-five-year old girl from leaving her mom's nest?"

Ah, Jo. The topic of whom Dean knows to delicately tip toe around just so Ellen doesn't feel the need to remind him she's licensed to carry concealed.

Dean takes a seat, after checking to make sure Sam's okay to man the counter alone.

"She still hellbent on D.C.?" he asks, the coffee pot getting set aside.

Ellen stirs a packet of sugar into her coffee. "Followin' her daddy's footsteps, of course. And just as stubborn about it."

It's tense for a moment, with the mention of Bill, who's been dead now some fifteen years. Shot and killed on the job, working a case no one ever really talks about.

"What's Bobby say?"

Ellen snorts again. "Nothing, 'cause he knows better. But between all the not-sayin'-anything, he talks a whole damn lot."

"Bobby's special skill," Dean snarks.

"He thinks I should let her go. Let her grow up."

"You think he's wrong?"

"No. That's what's pissing me off."

Dean huffs out fondly. Man, dysfunctional family dynamics aren't something to get sentimental about, yet here Dean is, standing up and leaning over to kiss the top of Ellen's head.

"Let me know if I need to start switching him to decaf," Dean tells her, grabbing the coffee to go.

When he turns, Cas is behind him, so close Dean's got to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision.

"Dammit," he says once he recovers, though his blood pressure is flipping out, "collar with a bell, Cas. Wear one."

Cas tilts his head and squints, considering. Or maybe just trying to figure Dean out. Fat chance.

Dean scoots around him, ignoring the look Ellen's laying into him.

"My apologies," Cas says, following. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Dean rolls his eyes. He puts the pot of coffee where it lives and slaps Sam on the back, back behind the register. "Customer," he tells him, just to be annoying.

Sam's huffy exhale lets Dean know he's unimpressed, but rather than publicly squabbling, he says, "What'll it be today, Cas?" while Dean goes to make sure the self-serve station isn't running low.

Cas orders a chai latte, then slowly heads back toward Dean while Sam takes his sweet ass time making it.

"Hello, Dean," he announces, loud.

Dean glares at Cas, but it only holds up for so long before crumbling into something not quite amused, but close.

"Yeah, yeah. You're hilarious."

"I unfortunately left my collar at home. A raised voice will have to do today."

For what it's worth, Dean is usually suave as fuck -- he's cool like ice, put that on his dating profile -- but he actually loses all functioning cognitive power as Cas's words register.

Son of a bitch, there's no way, NO WAY, Cas is implying what it sure as fuck sounds like he's implying. The guy's in here with his friggin' tie worn backwards beneath his scarf, that sort of cluelessness can't go hand-in-hand with the porn now whizzing through Dean's head like someone logged him into bustyasianbeauties.com, only starring Cas and a collar and --

\-- and now he has to will away a workplace boner, awesome.

"Dean?" Cas says, blinking.

Dean forces himself to swallow. Which is good, because at the tip of his tongue was something like, 'hey, baby, wanna put our dicks together?' and that's the sort of thing people are arrested for.

"Anyway," Cas goes on, eyeing Dean like there's a weird smell coming from his direction, "I only wanted to say hello. And to apologize for earlier. I wasn't eavesdropping, although it appeared that way."

It doesn't take a genius to know Cas is referring to more than what happened three minutes ago. The other day's drama is still hanging around like it turned literal and draped itself from the ceiling.

Uncomfortable with how genuine the moment's turned, Dean slips past Cas with a blow-off clap to his shoulder. "Okay."

Only Cas turns with him, so Dean's blocked in.

"I mean it. You and I, we have the tendency to miscommunicate. I wanted to set the record straight."

"Okay," Dean repeats. He's overly cheerful to cover up how bad this is throwing him off. Which, FYI, is a lot; right now, he's landed somewhere in Narnia. "Consider it straight."

Except Cas is staring like he's convinced otherwise. Probably because Dean's 100% lying through his teeth.

Sam, like a godsend, calls out, "Chai's ready," and that works to diffuse the moment that, great, Dean's having in front of everyone like this is some sort of domestic spat. No way Ellen's not watching like a hawk, making some mental note to pass the gossip to Bobby.

Cas nods, grabs his latte with another nod at Sam, and leaves as quietly as he came in.

When Dean's behind the counter again, Sam says, "So, you two--"

"Stow it, Sam."

Sam smirks, but only says, "You're welcome."

 

&&

 

Days eight through eleven are more of the same, except Cas seems to have leashed his weirdoness. He arrives, orders, talks the weather with Sam, makes awkward eye contact with Dean, then leaves.

It's so routine that, on that twelfth day, Dean's already got a hot chocolate toasty warm and ready to go. Just, you know, to avoid being around one another any longer than they need to.

Sam, though, stares at Dean like Dean's announced he's half-kitten, with this look like something adorable's going on.

"What? He'll be in and out, this way," Dean defends. That's his first mistake. His second is adding, "Dude's weird."

Now Sam's straight up beaming rainbows out of his eyes.

"It's so cute, how hard you pretend to hate him."

"Well, your face is stupid, and I do. And get a haircut, would you, you're shedding all over the food."

That kills Sam's buzz a little. Not entirely, but enough to give Dean some leverage here.

Sam makes a face and says sourly, "God knows why Cas likes you back, though."

Dean latches onto that -- he's just going to admit it here -- so pathetically, he might as well be recording the moment to report later in his diary. Still, he scoffs. "Whatever."

Sam doesn't take the bait. Sam just throws his hands up and backs off to tidy the coffee machines.

Dean lasts all of twelve seconds before he's blurting, "Cas can't stand me. I don't know what Lifetime movie you think you're watching."

"More like Katherine Heigl rom-com," he tries to sneak in under his breath, "but, yeah, Dean, he likes you."

That last part is offered sadly, like poor Dean's incapable of feeling love. Whatever, Dean's got bigger concerns.

Namely, "Katherine who-now?" A beat. "She hot?"

Sam sighs. But he also admits, "Yes."

Dean considers just how hot this Katherine lady might be -- he's picturing dark hair, big boobs, probably likes to be called 'Kat' -- when the bell on the door jingles, the first customer of the morning stepping in.

It's Cas, and Dean smirks at the confused look on his face because damn friggin' right, Dean went and installed one of those annoyingly loud bells on the door just to be a dick.

"Hey, Cas," he calls out happily, amused with his own doings.

Cas stays unmoving for a solid ten seconds, before his feet remember how to work again. "Has that always been there?"

"Put it up myself last night. Good news is, you're not crazy. Bad news is, no more creeping on people."

"Dean," Sam says right beside him, with a swat to his shoulder. "Be nice."

"I've never 'creeped' on anyone before," Cas defends with actual, honest-to-god air quotes. "And hello, Sam."

Sam's, "Hey, Cas," back is tired-sounding because he already knows he's been reduced to spectator.

"Keep telling yourself that," Dean tells Cas brightly.

"Who, then, am I creeping on? You?"

The accusation is blunt enough, it takes Dean down a peg. Well, a couple pegs. Okay, he's got no pegs left. It leaves him blustering.

"Well. Yeah. And, you know, other people. Me. Sam."

"Nope," Sam argues quickly.

"Other people," Dean finishes.

"I see." There's something scary about the toneless way Cas says that. Probably because it's followed with a stare so stone cold, Dean's second guessing himself.

He expected, in hanging the bell up, to get a rise out of Cas, but if he's being honest here, he also expected that rise to happen more in the pants area. He was trying to flirt, okay. Busted. He's got the emotions of a twelve-year-old and his way of saying, 'I like you' was to be an asshole. Big freakin' surprise.

"Hey," Sam speaks up, to break the tension, "look what Dean already whipped up for you. Mmm, hot chocolate."

Far from placating him, it only serves to dig the hole deeper. "Dean has a habit of presuming to know anything about me or what I might want," Cas bites out, clearly beyond done, and Dean's right there with him.

"Dude, gimme a break, it's a friggin' bell, not your Myspace profile. And I was joking. Not like I'd expect you to remove the stick outta your ass long enough to notice."

"Okay," Sam interrupts. He sets the hot chocolate on the counter and steps back. "I'm going to... not be a witness to this inevitable double-homicide. From way back there, where I'll be, not insulting the customers. Cas," he says, though Cas is stuck glaring at Dean and barely pays him any attention, "drink's on the house, for pretty much ever. Okay."

And then he splits, leaving Dean and Cas silently fuming at one another.

"What's your deal with me?" Dean demands.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't do that. Don't act like, from day one, you haven't been pissed off and holding a grudge because I wouldn't let you clang your little bell out front."

Cas's eyes blow open wide, then narrow dangerously. "Is that why..."

Dean's gaze skips over Cas's shoulder, over to the bell above the door. "That was a joke!" he insists once more. "Bell. Collar? Jesus."

There's a long pause before Cas says, "I'm not holding any grudges, certainly not for you."

"Sure," Dean scoffs. "Okay."

"You don't believe me?"

"I was a dick to you. 'Course I don't believe you."

"And why would that bother me? You think you're the first person who's asked me to relocate elsewhere? Either you're incredibly naive, or somehow more arrogant than I already assumed."

So much of that stings. Like, not just hurts Dean's feelings, but lands like a solid blow. And the worst part is, he knows he deserves it, he's pushed Cas here, but it still sucks to hear the truth.

Calmly, with no emotions whatsoever, he says, "Okay. How 'bout we both decide you're a guy who gets his morning coffee somewhere else from now on. Capisce?"

At Dean's temper nosediving, Cas comes back to himself a little, less wound up than he was a moment before. Dean reads his regret loud and clear, because he's giving it right back, but it's way too late for that.

Gently, Cas says, "I capisce."

He lingers long enough to pass something between them, this unspoken apology, but then he's gone out the door. The jingle of the bell as he goes makes Dean want to throw the left behind cup of hot chocolate at it.

Instead, he swipes it from the counter and dumps it down the drain.

"So." Sam's returned. He hesitates. "You and Cas?"

"Not now."

"Look, Dean, I get it. You like him, except you're fighting him, and it's making you way harder to be around than usual, but this is my business too. You can't just make a scene like that. You can't -- Dean," he says, to make Dean pay attention. "You can't treat people like that. Except for Bobby," he jokes, trying to keep things light, but Dean's not in the mood. Sam sighs. "Sorry, Dean."

"Hey, man. It's cool." Dean grins, to prove it, but the thing wobbles and gives him away.

"Yeah. Except I know that's code for 'I don't know what to do with these real feelings'--"

"Yeah, okay. Bite me."

Sam smiles. Dean snapping, after all, is a sign of returned normalcy.

"If you're cool, and I mean the real, genuine deal," Sam tells him, "Great. I'll leave it be. I'll co-found the 'Asstyel' clubhouse with you. But. You do know we can talk, too. Right? If you're not okay?"

He's tempted to spill his guts about how, even though Cas is a dork with a scarf fetish and the personality of a cactus, he's sort of fallen for him anyway, which is number one on the list of things currently kicking Dean in his heart's crotch. Number two is the fact that he made it so Cas is never gonna wanna speak to him again. Number three is being committed to the bell on the door from now until forever.

Dean bottles it in, because it's done anyway.

"I'm serious," he tells Sam. This time he fakes the smile perfectly. "I'm fine. Now shut up and tell me about that Katherine Heigl chick."

 

&&

 

Cas isn't around for day thirteen, but Dean sees him through the window. He's across the street, holding out his stupid box and asking for donations.

Sam, with his sixth sense for Dean's moments of weakness, comes over and claps his ginormous mitt on Dean's shoulder as a gesture of -- who even knows, brotherly camaraderie, or whatever was happening in the tampon commercial Sam's clearly scamming from.

"Put on a hair net, you're getting mane all over," Dean jabs, slipping out of the hold.

 

&&

 

On day twenty-two, Dean's ready to storm across the street and strangle the stupid son-of-a-bitch because Cas has been out there for going on two hours without his friggin' scarf.

Dean knows from his sprint from the car into work this morning, it's cold enough out there to shrivel things. It's freezing, literally, and the guy couldn't even remember to wear a scarf.

Mid-fume, there's a cup of hot chocolate shoved in Dean's face.

"Go," Sam says. "You know you want to, don't try to deny it. You're staring."

Dean's argument dies before it even begins. Fuck Sam, but also, yeah. Dammit, he wants to bring the guy some cocoa.

"You, shut up," he threatens, grabbing it and going.

"'Oh, Cas, thank god I finally realized what this quiver in my heart means'--"

The door shuts solidly on Sam's highpitched mocking. Dean makes plans to get away with bodily harm, later.

It seemed important at the time, and like the right thing to do, but now that Dean's out here -- okay, fine, now that Cas has spotted him -- Dean feels nothing but regret. Well, cold and embarrassed, too, but mostly that first thing.

Somehow he gets going, though, and after stepping in some slush and cursing at his luck, he's in front of a thoroughly confused Cas.

"Hi," Dean grunts.

Cas is openly appraising Dean like this is some kind of trick. Eventually he reaches the conclusion that, even if it is, he still has his manners. "Hello, Dean."

Jesus, he's chattering. That just reaffirms that Dean was right, Cas has been out here freezing his ass off all morning.

There are a shit ton of things Dean could say right now, starting at the top with 'sorry I suck so bad, it'd be awesome if you gave this thing between us another shot', but in the end, he settles with, "Here," shoving the hot chocolate into Cas's free hand. "Wear the damn scarf next time, you idiot."

And then he's ignoring whatever's going on with Cas's face, stomping back across the road. He nearly faceplants on a patch of ice but he manages to make it back unscathed, except his heart is pounding and there's a tightness in his chest like wires tangling the bones up through his sternum.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam says to him once the pressure eases off and Dean doesn't feel so much like his ribcage is declaring mutiny, softly, so no one else hears. This time he doesn't knock the hand off his shoulder, but he does, some time later, stick a note on his back that says 'I love Justin Bieber.'

Sam, that day, is a hit with the middle school crowd.

 

&&

 

The twenty-third day is a complete effin' surprise, because guess who shows up? First customer of the day, too.

Cas comes in with a wince at the bell. Dean's head snaps up the second he hears it.

There's a pretty lengthy stare-off. Of course there is.

Cas breaks it first, to scan behind Dean.

"Your brother," he says, eyes on Dean again. "Is he here?"

Ouch. But not entirely unwarranted.

Dean busies himself by reaching under the counter and tearing into some stock they don't even need; a box filled with small plastic cups of creamer.

"Not unless he's stupid." Without being prompted, he clarifies, "Jess, that's his wife, she's pregnant, and most mornings? Yeah. It ain't pretty. Sam, when he knows what's good for him, stays home until all the praying to the porcelain gods is over." Looking up, he meets Cas's eyes again. "Want me to pass along a message?"

"No," Cas says. Dean has a second to feel like shit over the rejection, before Cas adds, "Truthfully, I was hoping to find you alone."

So, yeah. Dean's pulse spikes. He forgets all about the creamers, pushing the box aside.

"Okay." He goes for casual, though there's a hoarseness he can't cover up that's a dead giveaway. "About?"

"The last time we spoke -- well, the time before that. The last time we actually spoke was pleasant, probably because we barely said any words--"

"Cas," Dean interrupts to get Cas making sense again.

"I'm sorry. I'm rambling. It's a nervous habit." His eyes get a little bigger, suddenly full of sorrow. "I was rude to you."

"Uh." That's the first brilliant thing that falls from his mouth, considering how unexpected Cas's words are. Besides, he's wrong. "Dude. I was rude to you," he argues.

"I agree. As you almost always are."

That's awesome. Wedge that knife in deeper, Cas.

"Look, I don't know what to tell you, man."

"That's not a complaint," rushes out of Cas before Dean can even finish throwing in the towel. "It's your primary defense, I know that. Regardless of your emotions. You do the same thing with Sam. I'm not complaining."

"Uh. Okay." Dean swallows, and forces out thickly, "Cas, I gotta be honest. I've got no idea what's happening here."

"When you came by yesterday, with the hot chocolate, I realized I'd been missing that. You," he admits, after meeting Dean's eyes and holding the look boldly.

"Cas..."

Then, the bell jingles.

"Good god, you afraid of an electric bill?" comes Bobby, halfway through the door and cranky already. "Turn on the damn heat, some of us still like to feel our fingers and toes. And aren't you the one always out front with the little--" That's the miming of a bell, and directed at Cas, who bristles like this is some ongoing prank at his expense.

"Hey, cool it," Dean warns Bobby, who, depending on the day, is either the nicest or meanest son-of-a-bitch you'll ever meet. "Don't make me call Ellen."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm cooling. And unless you two are too busy making eyes at each other, I'd like a cup of coffee sometime before the hypothermia sets in."

"Jesus," Dean swears, ducking from the counter to do just that with the tips of his ears flaming pink. He can't even go into crisis mode over Cas admitting that he misses Dean (holy fuck) because sure as shit Bobby'll pick up on it.

Flashing Cas some apology-eyes, Dean rounds the counter with a hot pot of coffee.

"That better not be decaf," Bobby drawls.

Dean grits his teeth and heads back for the regular pot.

"There," he says, once he's pouring it for Bobby at his usual table, "you happy?"

"Who's your friend?"

Dean doesn't even know if him and Cas are friends, so not answering him feels like a solid move. Except Cas tracks him his whole walk back, with eyes like Dean kicked his dog, so he drops the pot back where it belongs and meets him across the register again.

There, he holds eye contact and demands, in it, that Cas accepts that this is who he is, take it or leave it. And Cas stares back with his own look that challenges Dean to stop being an asshole as his easiest emotional default.

"This is Cas," Dean answers finally, declaring something huge. It makes Cas's expression melt, going from guarded to hopeful, and damn if Dean's doesn't want to grab hold of that stupid scarf and put their mouths together in the most awesome way possible.

"What Dean's failing to say back is, I'm Bobby. Nice to meet you."

"You as well." Cas finally tears his eyes off of Dean, to meet Bobby's. "And, yes, you've seen me across the street as a volunteer. Except, what you and Dean keep getting wrong is that I'm not ringing any bell."

"If you say so," Bobby drawls.

"Just embrace it, man."

Cas winds up staying only a few minutes longer, just enough to get a mocha latte, but he's smiling as he goes, aiming it at Dean like he can't help it.

"Well, that was all kinds of adorable," Bobby comments, after.

Dean flushes hot red.

 

&&

 

By day thirty-two, Dean's ready to lose it.

Things with Cas are cool, but that's the problem. They're trapped in this awkward limbo of prolonged eye contact and loaded conversations, but it never goes anywhere beyond Dean breaking out his sappiest of grins. That's his game right now. Like they skipped all the good stuff.

Hell, they don't even talk outside of Cas's usual morning stop-in for coffee.

"Look," Sam says, knocking shoulders with Dean. He nods toward the window, where Cas is just outside. He's on the phone.

"Hm," Dean answers, content for once to ignore the usual Cas-related flutter in his chest considering it's giving him nothing but blue balls at this point.

"Oh, come on. Again?" Sam whines.

Dean honestly, genuinely has no idea what's ruffling his brother's feathers. So his, "What?" isn't even feigned ignorance. That's the real deal.

"Please go talk to him."

"He's busy."

"Yeah, I know. He's stressed. I mean, look at him."

Begrudgingly, Dean does. And, of course, Sam is right. Cas is just at the edge of where they can see him; his shoulders are both tense and droopy somehow and he keeps looking up at the sky like he's fighting something back.

It's kinda nuts how he knows next to nothing about the guy. That's an insane thing to realize when you're already so far gone. Even crazier, it doesn't abate anything.

"Dean..."

"I'm going! Geez."

Sam smirks, but he leaves Dean alone as Dean heats up some hot chocolate beforehand. He's predictable. So what. It works.

He wastes some time while it cools until Cas is off the phone, then he's around the counter and out the door.

Cas is turned the other way, huddled from the cold, staring down at his phone. After a moment, he regroups and turns, then startles since Dean? Kinda right there.

"Hey," is the first thing he blurts. Smooth.

"Dean. Hello."

Dean holds out the cup. "Here ya go." Instead of immediately taking it, Cas just stares. Like this is a test. Like Dean's forcing something here. Dean feels his bravado get kicked swiftly in the balls. Floundering, he hardens his voice and says, "You looked like you needed it. Okay? I wasn't creeping."

Finally, Cas smiles. Just a small, hardly-even-counts thing that lights up his whole face anyway. Which, good. God, that's good. It makes Dean's confidence peel itself from the floor and stumble to its feet again.

Then Cas's fingers wrap around Dean's on the outside of the cup, only instead of grabbing it, he just holds on, and where a normal person would say 'thank you, Dean, you're so awesome, what a cool guy' Cas leans in and kisses him.

Which, and this goes without saying, it breaks Dean's brain for an entire three seconds before the lone brain cell still in commission cups its hands and shouts at him, 'CAS ATTACHED HIS MOUTH TO YOURS, IDIOT, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.'

So, yeah, Dean shoves himself forward so there ain't an inch of space between them, earning a breathy 'oof' out of Cas that he feels puff across his lips. It breaks the kiss, but only long enough for Dean to dig his free hand into the frayed end of Cas's scarf and drag him back in like he's been wanting to do for a full month now.

After a solid two minutes of making out, both of them standing forehead to forehead now, Dean exhales, "Damn, Cas."

Cas sounds content, too, when he says, "Dean."

The moment's effectively broken when there's a tap at the glass window.

Sam. Dammit. Dean just _knows_.

Sure enough, Dean glances that way just enough to see that, yup. There's his bitch of a little brother, thumbs-upping them from inside.

"Jesus," Dean swears.

Cas, though, pulls away and waves.

"Jesus," Dean swears again, even more embarrassed.

 

&&

Days thirty-three and on are pretty damn okay.

 

&&

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly, from this point on, they get to know one another. And have sex.


End file.
